Susan
by Ephemeral Dream
Summary: Maybe Susan does remember. And maybe that's the real reason she's turned away from Narnia. Some PeterSusan incest. Don't like, don't read, don't flame. Simple, no?
1. Chapter 1

First _Chronicles of Narnia_ fanfic ever, wheee. I read the books a long time ago, and recently wanted to see the move (but haven't! darn it all!). This is inspired by an array of fanfics.

Oh yeah, incest – particularly Peter/Susan. Don't like, don't read, don't flame. Thank you!

(Btw, I know the title is completely unoriginal, but I feel what the heck, it encompasses what I wrote…and this has been read quickly once, I'll probly edit it more later.)

_**Susan**_

She remembered it, she remembered it all. And she was sure that she remembered it better, clearer, more passionately than the rest of them did, or even could. The grand feasts. The gentle wind. Aslan's silky mane – which all pains could be lost by crying into. It was memories that made her turn away from Narnia, not forgetting. _Never_ forgetting.

It was easy to become an automaton, fall into a careless, unchanging routine of parties and boys for her life. And it didn't matter to her that she should waste her days away, because it was only at night when she felt truly alive. When memories became dreams, and dreams became a reality – senses so sharp, it was almost painful in contrast to the dull "real" world. She'd remember ruling over Narnians, _her people_, protecting them and guiding them – the Gentle Queen, Mother of Narnia. She'd recall laughing with her siblings – peals of Lucy's bell-like giggles, Edmund's sardonic sort of snort, and of course, Peter's calm, assuring chuckle – never overdone, but always appreciative, forever promising happiness, safety, and love. And the chorus of all the enriching laughs together was like a private harmony to her ears. These were special moments, to be sure – moments which her current life paled to so much she'd awake each morning with tears in her eyes, her biggest regret being _being alive_.

And there were other moments too. More private ones, ones shared with just her older brother, the golden High King, Peter – the most beautiful being she'd ever beheld in both her lifetimes. With him, she had her most cherished memories. It could be simple things – perhaps a refreshing walk, just the two of them, to break from the feasting, dancing, or overall extravagant gaiety of Cair Paravel. It could be night concealed kisses, brushing softly like butterfly wings over hands, cheeks, and lips.

And she remembered every last detail. The amazing light scent – did it trace of spices? sweat? flowers? – of his ruffled hair that couldn't be truly described as anything but _Peter_. The exuberant warmth of his hand on the small of her back as he led her through the halls of their magnificent castle, pulling her away from the crowd, because it was her he wanted and only her. The exact rising and falling of his voice as he called her name in a way only one man would ever and could ever call it. The sight of his smile, the one reserved just for her, where the left eyebrow lifted slightly higher than the right, where eyes said _I love you _a thousand times over, where upturned corners of lips reached the highest of heights. The sour-sweet taste of his lips pressed passionately against hers after a shared bottle of wine and so much more.

It was all so beautiful – her memories. He – Peter, Golden Peter, High King Peter, _her_ Peter – was so beautiful. But in the glare of the harsh morning light that pierced through her windows, dreams, and heart, the beauty was meretricious. Because, though Peter was as dazzling as he'd always been (and she was sure, he would always be), that life was over, and he no longer remembered her. Or at least not completely – most definitely not in the way of leading hands, speaking eyes, and wine-flavored kisses. So as tears pricked her eyes, as pain inside stung as fresh as a salted wound, everyday she would die just a little more. But red eyes could be covered and pain hidden away, and she could live this way - if only because it wasn't really a _life_ she was living. Until one day – behind the stunning makeup, jewelry and clothing – she was only half alive, partially wondering if she should just give up pretending to remember nothing and show her siblings, _show Peter_, that itwas they, _it was_ _him_, who had forgotten things.

But she had come to the conclusion long ago that if Peter had forgotten her, in the way that she most needed him to remember her, then memories – even ones as important and beloved as these – weren't the type of thing she could give him back. And she decided if she couldn't have Peter, she didn't need anything else – approval, a real life, and certainly not Narnia.

What's more, she certainly did not need memories – not those wonderful, cruel, blissful, painful memories. But she remembered it, she remembered it all. And she was sure that she remembered it better, clearer, more passionately than the rest of them did, or even could.

_**The End**_

So yes, it's short. Perhaps some parts are overdone. And I do feel the end is a bit skimpy, but I couldn't figure out the right way to conclude this. I might tinker with it later, but for now, I'll leave it as is. **Reviews**, please?


	2. Chapter 2

Hmmm? A rejoinder of sorts? I suppose. I kinda was just thinking, what Peter's view of this would be.

_**Peter**_

Always, always, always. Another boy, another party, another excuse to get away. He'd asked her many a time why she'd let it get that way – let herself be that way. Why she did such a thing to him – _them_. Simply…

**Why?**

The question was simple enough, but the answer never was. Not if that hurt look she gave him with her eyes, contrasted by a forced smile, was of any indication. Not if, furthermore, that pang than rang through his chest every time she turned away from him – _them_ – had any sort of meaning. Not if her encrypted physiognomy served as a silent rejoinder to her spoken one-word answer…

**Because.**

He thought he'd known love could hurt. He thought he knew it when Edmund had slipped away and joined the White Witch. He thought he knew it when his father had died. But this was a different type of hurt, an unaccustomed type, and perhaps a type only _she_ could inflict on him…

**Susan.**

The pain wasn't just when she left house at night, a boy's arm wrapped around her shoulder. It was when they'd have a happy moment together – or at least a close one – a holiday, an accomplishment, even a loss – when he'd think she'd come back to him – _them_ – only to see her turn away once more. (Turn away to a world he couldn't understand and wasn't sure she did.) This pain was when he'd blink sleepy eyes open to find her long gone to another's company, though she'd stay up all night chatting contentedly with him and Edmund and Lucy in the living room, till they all fell asleep in the barest of dawn's morning rays – Edmund and Lucy in soft armchairs, her in his arms on the couch. This pain was when he'd find her crying in the middle of the night as he fumbled sleepily to the kitchen for a drink of water. When he'd approach her softly only to be pushed away as she hurried back to her own room. When she'd never say a word about it in the morning. This was the pain she inflicted…

**You're hurting me – _us_. **_A cocked eyebrow, an apathetic face, and maybe even a glare within that piercing glaze. The cool way a dismissal began to fall from her lips._**You're hurting me, dammit.**

**You're hurting _me_.**

He'd only said it once. And she'd only replied once. Because after that, they'd never spoken of it again. After that, he'd been taken to Narnia for the final time, this time _without_ her at his side. And so the wonder of her words stayed with him through it all.

**And you've already hurt me, Peter.**

And he thought he remembered something of the feel of a back, warm attention to his silent _I love you_s, and wine-flavored kisses. But Susan was already gone.

_**The End**_

I kinda like how this turned out. Yet again, **reviews**, please!


	3. not a real chapter

I feel like so many of these could start or end and Susan story, maybe even both. I was brain storming, but they turned into a semi-nice collection of shorts.

**ooo**

She forgets Narnia, or so she says – so she convinces herself. But she claims a perfect memory thereafter. It's simply a part of her repertoire for this new modern girl she's becoming.

As a result, she remembers her senses. It's no surprise to herself really. After all. She's always been sensible, and just now she's become sensual as well.

**ooo**

The first thing she feels is soft beaver fur, but the first thing she _feels_ is her heart break.

**ooo**

"I can't believe you, Susan."

"How could you? _How could you?_"

She hears them, but pretends not to. She's used to Edmund, though Lucy's voice still shatters her very core. She thinks of Peter, but ignores all of it. Does _ignoring_ have anything to do with _ignorance_? That's either a very sensible question or a very stupid one. Doesn't matter. Now she almost wants to slap herself as much as she wants to slap _him_.

**ooo**

The smell of her perfume permeates her own thoughts, and she instantly regrets spraying on so much. It had been an act of retaliation. They disapproved. And what's more, she knew he hated it too. But now that a handkerchief is at her nose, she's come to her senses and wishes that it would be as simple as ridding herself of this perfume to make him love her again.

**ooo**

He tastes horrible, but somehow she takes pleasure in her displeasure. He's come home drunk every night for a week now, but she's the only one up late enough to catch this. She tells herself it's because she's the next eldest. She has to wait.

He presses his lips hard against hers, and she no longer knows why she avoided this so long just to break for this shell of the man she loves. She now half hopes he really is completely drunk – half wishes she were too.

**ooo**

She sees the emptiness of the house and wonders what she'll do without her siblings. Then she realizes that they've been dead to her for a long time. She cries tears that are probably ruining the make up on her doll-like face. She wonders if, all this time, she was already dead to them too.

Except, she realizes, they are probably more alive for her now. Because she doesn't deny them anymore. Doesn't crush the thought of joining in in their happiness. Isn't scared of too much affection for Peter, because she thinks that if she could see him now, whatever affection she feared before wouldn't even begin to be enough to shower him with now.

Somehow, she finds herself in front of a wardrobe long avoided. Now she's crawling like a child, through the thick beaver coats. Now she's reaching out –

**ooo**

The first thing she feels is hard wood, but the first thing she _feels_, without knowing why, is her heart break.


End file.
